History of the Wylling
See also: The Wylling Turn 0 }|turn00| "Never turn down a good chance to suffer" - Advice of a Wylling father to his son The philosophy of the four-foot humanoids know as the Wylling was perhaps one of the stranger schools of thought on Aljaan. Only through hardship and suffering, they believed, could one become truly strong. But while taking the easy path was frowned upon, burdening oneself unduly was considered an equal or greater affront. Instead, the many pastoral communities would gather at the cooking fires each night and discuss their troubles, focusing on recovery and how best to improve from each misfortune. Of course, such a philosophy bred all kinds of bad habits- masochism, isolationism, and in some a sort of manic pessimism: not a simple belief that things would go wrong, but a hope. But despite their strange ideas, or still possibly because of them, the Wylling had slowly made their way out of their hillfarms and into Aljaan's fitful skies, borne on the backs of blazing, goat-horned kirin. }} Turn 1 }|turn01|Rebin Tallfellow smiled to himself as he shouldered his pack. The straps slid comfortably into well-worn indents on his leather duster, and the weight of its contents was comforting: mother had added extra potatoes today. It was her little way of increasing his burden while calling it a boon, and he was doubly lucky for it. Especially today, as he set out to become the Hero. Pa Tallfellow sunk back against his restin' post as he watched his boy head down the road to the Kirin Eyrie. He hoped he had been hard enough on the boy. When the council had chosen his son, the bright-eyed bug-hunter, to be the Hero of Lyndil, he had been filled with doubt. Could he have done more for the boy? Had he suffered enough? But Ma Tallfellow had shushed him and said to let their son be. Not everyone became a Hero, after all. Together, but apart, they sing the Myxai as his son leaves home. Come misfortune, guide my path Lead me til my dying breath. Give me now your pain and sorrow, Strengthen me to face t'morrow I cry. And if we should win the day, Bring me more battles I pray. Keep that loathsome rest from me, Surrender's futility. I fly. To be a Hero can mean many different things to the Wylling. A Hero can be a great warrior, a poet, or a scholar. But what is certain is this: once a child's name is seen within the Kirin scales, the town council will bid them to go forth and discover the greatness that the world has destined for them. They must find the hardest path for themselves, and work until they become an exemplar of that which was most difficult for them. Such is the way of the Wylling. (Research culture x2, Develop culture x2) Results +7 (67-60), -16 (44-60) F! (3!-60), -8 (52-60) When some weeks later, they found a bug net in the Lyndil rapids, a bloodstained shirt torn and wrapped around it, they feared the worst. A sudden death is no hardship. It is not honorable nor brave. Ma and Pa could only take some solace in their own suffering, and hope that he was not dead but merely critically injured. Horribly maimed, rather than gone. (Critical Fumble! You get no benefit from your culture bonus until you roll two cultural development successes in one turn. +1 Culture) But his memory trickled in from the Eyrie road. Not much. The vision of a young man in a duster. A traveling boy catching crickets with the village children. A potato changer moving spuds to and from the coast recognized the name: Tallfellow. All along the road, they searched for him, for there is little more offensive to a Wylling than a story left in the lurch. After weeks, with supreme disappointment, the search was ended. That didn’t stop the stories from trickling in, or their tellers from carrying them. (+2 Culture Tech) Stories of your many failures spread, whelming the hearts of this generation and the next. (Gain +2 Culture) }} Turn 2 }|turn02| "Gaze into the Abyss, my child. Its words, though seldom, ring true." -- Allyris, Edgewitch Seer The Cowl was not a place much traveled by the Wylling. The endless sky held little value to them: it was a boundless desert home only to the flimbriffs and the occasional flock of dropkettles, creatures that lived their entire lives leeching water from the clouds. But some remembered the old ways, the hard times, when the hills were cold and barren, and the rains needed to be coaxed forth from the Far Roils. The calling of the first Kirin from the Under, and those brave Heroes who tamed them. These Wylling who lived nearest to the Cowl's cliffs subjected themselves to the unceasing winds and the sudden tempests from the Roils. If the rest of the Wylling were the Hillfolk, these were the Edgefolk. Most simply called them the Strange Ones, but the Edgefolk didn't mind overmuch. They kept their secrets to themselves, and, if the Hillfolk didn't understand them, it was just as well. More flimbriff tea for the rest of them. (Develop culture x3) Thus it was that Heprey, apprentice Edgewitch, found herself explaining to the silly Hillboy where dropkettles came from for the third time that day. "They hatch Tobin! From eggs, like little Kirin. On another Edge across the Cowl!" Tobin scowled. "But mum says that things don't live outside the hills because its not safe. Only Heroes go beyond the hills." Heprey rolled her eyes. "I live beyond the hills don't I?" Tobin nodded. "So do plenty of other things! Come on, the other Edgewitches are doing an egg-hunt later today anyway. Don't you want ride a Kirin? See the Cowl?" "What-t-t-t, what if you drop me?" "Oh come on, there's no hills to fall on in the Cowl! We'll just fly down and catch you. Now get your bag, the sun's almost peaked!" (expand to tiny island x1) Results -14, !5, +18, +21 “Heprey Oddbern.” Heprey stood. She stood in an Edgewise building, surrounded by her fellow witches. Her fellow witches. She clutched at her hands. For how long would they be her fellows? Her teacher, Heela, stood beside the Maven as the old witch spoke. The Maven pointed at the ground before her, and Heprey obeyed, shuffling before her and falling to her knees. “It has been brought to the attention of our council, that you brought a grave grievance into this world. You are charged with the heinous act of slaughter-however-unintentional. How do you plead your case, young one?” Heprey looked up at Heela and the Maven, blinking. “I didn’t drop him,” she said. “However the evidence is plain. He left with you on kirin-back and has yet to return.” Heprey shook her head, blinking away tears. “I didn’t drop him,” she said. “I didn’t. It was… something else. It took him!” “And,” the Maven said. “Can you please tell us or describe, exactly what this something was?” Heprey clutched at her chest. “N-no. It was cloudy. And it was quick.” The Maven set her lips, locking her fingers together so her arms flexed, and she leered. “I have already heard this claim of yours. I will not stand for your nonsense, child,” she said. “This is not story-time. This is a matter concerning the people of the Hills, and so we must deal harshly.” She gathered herself up to her full, regal height. As she read the sentence, Heprey stared up at her teacher, but Heela didn’t meet her eye. “As decided by our council in secret, and presented now in the public of our peers, we decree that Heprey Oddbern shall terminate her apprenticeship immediately, and she shall never hereafter be welcome among Edgefolk. She shall be given safe passage across the land strait to survive her days in contemplation until death, or until such a day as her grievance is undone or disillusioned by evidence to the contrary. Her belongings to be confiscated are as follows…” Heprey sat in the darkness, far away from the light of her teacher’s hut, looking out over the edge. Heela came to her, lifting her skirt to cross the rocks, and she sat beside her. Heprey turned away. “It’s a clear night. It’s beautiful,” Heela said. “I hear you went as far as the isle to the east. You know, I think I’ve heard of a settlement over there.” “Go away,” Heprey said. “I hate you.” Heela nodded. “Of course. Why shouldn’t you?” she said. She held something in her hands, and she contemplated it, turning it around in the darkness. “I want you to know that I believe every word you say. And that if you were to be absolved, I’d welcome you back like a daughter.” “Absolved?” Heprey said. “Tobin’s dead. How do you undo death?” Heela reach over, pressing the something in her hands into the hands of her former apprentice. Heprey held it up in a shard of firelight. It was a whistle, carved in the shape of a Kirin head. “But you were supposed to take this.” “I did,” Heela said. “It didn’t say anything about giving it back.” Tears pooled in Heprey’s eyes, she hugged her teacher, flinging her arms around her, and in a run a blow of a whistle and the flap of wings, she was gone. (Critical fumble! On top of your previous fumble, your next critical will be inverted. A fumble will count as a success, and a success will be counted as a fumble.) (Gain +2 Culture) (A +2 Colony is struck! You’ll need another success to expand it into a full province.) }} Turn 3 }|turn03| "Roiltide ritual Heprey, just like you were taught. Mark the coin, and bind it to the -- Sit still Zarlus, please!" The kirin gave a lazy harumph as the edgewitch scampered over to his flank, making sure the his harness was secured. The hunger was getting to him. It felt like seasons since he had eaten a proper meal; roots of Last Chance and grenzweiss flowers were not fitting for a kirin his age. But Heprey's astrolabe didn't lie; Roiltide was still not halfway through. "CRACK!" Zarlus lets out a roar as Heprey finishes tightening the harness, the heavy rune stones slamming into place across his chest. He wasn't certain what exactly all this decoration was meant to do, but if it gave his charge peace of mind, he would go along with it. The Strange Folk's customs had worked before. (develop culture x2, Roiltide ritual) With a small, weary smile on her face, Heprey jumps back up onto the saddle. "Come on Zarlus, time to go. The Hillfolk out on Kettlerock have never been this near the edge before, so I can probably teach them a few things in exchange for a place to stay. Maybe it can even be our new home! I wonder what it's like to be a Hillfolk..." Zarlus rolls his eyes as his charge mumbles on and he gallops skyward. The possibility of juicy Hillfolk moleboar was enough for him. (province Kettlerock up x2) Results +3, -11, +3, -37 When there were no stories old, The moon was full and bright, Kirin great had tamed the Roils, Weaving wind to make their nests, But in the long-toothed ages since, As the moon was drained of light, Kirin lost their touch for weaving, Dam’d forever to the Lull. Maybe the runes brought the ages back to Zarlus. Maybe they held some real power. Whenever the wind changed, he dipped through thermals, finding faster, steadier air. It seemed to bend for him, or for Heprey. It was also possible, though far less probable, that the wind was simply going their way; any way, it was. +2 Heprey gasped. “Look, Zarlus!” Focused on the way, he had missed the destination. Through the blue distance, from behind a silver cloudbank, a coast resolved. A wispy wave drew back, washing up to swallow its craggy coast before retreating again. The coast ascended into a face, pocked with cones rising upward, steamclouds rising from the flows of unseen magma. Further up, where the spouts thinned, houses perched. They were the sort the hillfolk built, or the kind they would build in this inhospitable place. They’d found wood somewhere, but it was white and gnarled like the coast, and it framed the jagged rocks like the angled marks of a ritual. Heprey cackled, patting him on the side. “Come on! Let’s find a place to set down.” ho! +4 Power, +4 Income, +5 Culture }} Turn 4 }|turn04| The winters of Al'jaan, while fearsome indeed for those living upon the edge, do not oft bring their snows and winds to the realm of the Hillfolk. Instead, the winter season brings a thick and freezing fog, obscuring the sun's light and blighting all but the hardiest plant life. Even the boldest Wylling know better than to stray outside when they cannot see more than 40 feet in front of them. Instead, these winter months are spent living off of the fruits of their labor and turning their vast stores into crafts; the spring will be filled with the music of Kirin whisker fiddles and Millreed pipes. (Develop Power x2) But many of the Hillfolk settlers of Kettlerock find themselves abandoning their shoddy homes as driving sleet and snow arrive. For what was once intimidating now became their salvation. The glowing rivulets of lava, avoided in the summers due to the inherent danger, turn driving snow into gentle rain with their warm updrafts. Similarly, the once far-too-warm pools of water now steamed invitingly for both Wylling and fauna, and the hot springs are quickly adopted as an important part of Kettlerock life. Huntsmen sustained the young colony as the rest relaxed in the geothermally generated paradise. (develop culture x2) Results -58, +03, +11, -41 As Ma kneaded wool by the fire, humming a cheerful dirge to herself, Pa Tallfellow sat on the back porch with a lantern and his knife. Whittles fell from a rough dowel in his hands, landing as wooden spirals on his heavy coat. In whittling, he’d forgotten the cold in his fingers. Working with one’s hands is a good way to forget misfortune. As he turned the dowel, bringing its arm-length thinner and thinner, it began to resemble a slender pole. He cut a notch on one end, squaring it so it would join to a net hoop. He admired it coldly, then leaned it against the doorframe with the others. (+2 Power in Hills) A Kettlefolk family gets through a cold snap by relaxing in the hot spring. The mother, Padder, a woman with a pruned face — doubly pruned by the water and steam — notices their young guest is apart from them in the water, still tugging at her Kirin’s leg. She goes over to them, her frailness lightened in the water. “The water’s really nice,” Heprey says. “It’s warm, anyways.” The Kirin huffs, turning away from the water and rolling his back toward her. “Come on,” she pleads. “You can’t force some things, dearie,” Padder says. Heprey twists around, dropping down into the water. “I- I know,” she says. “But I know he wouldn’t regret it.” “That’s the worst, isn’t it? Children are like that. Sometimes they don’t know what’s good for them, but what can you do?” the mother says. “Thanks for all your help, today. You really saved me from those big lizards. Nobody’s ever survived so much as a bite from them. It’s too disgusting to describe.” “They smell pretty bad, too,” Heprey says. “Really, it was nothing. If they weren’t afraid of Zarlus, I couldn’t have done anything.” Padder smiles. “Why don’t you stay until the solstice, sweetheart? We could use more hands around here for the winter.” Heprey shakes her head, eyes set. “I can’t. But thanks for your hospitality. Not everyone would take in an Edgewitch like me.” She glances off at the horizon, through the haze of steam. “You said there was a place the gilly lizards wouldn’t go.” “Maybe…” Padder says. “It’s one of those stories, you know. And it comes from the other side of the island. A cave they’re afraid of must be a pretty terrifying place. They’re not afraid of anything.” Her smile wilted, growing a little pained. “So you’re going there, then?” “I think I have to.” “Well, well,” Padder says. “We’ll all be singing the Myxai for you. Don’t let misfortune be the only thing that guides you, okay?” (+6 Culture in Kettlerock) }} Turn 5 }|turn05| The passing of Daedrok's Lens meant little to the Wylling of the Hills, surrounded as they were by dense fogs. It most often passed unnoticed, save for years when the mists thinned. But sometimes, as this one, they would be given the great kirin's blessing, and begin the year of double-harvest. The Glass Moon's refractions contorted the sun's faint light til it burned through the Hills' winter veil, lifting the curse many weeks in advance. (Develop Income & Power in Lyndil/Hills) Heprey would not see the solstice this year. She smiled wistfully at the morning sky as the sun and moon both began their slow rise, the glass orb chasing its solar companion. She briefly glances at the tinted goggles in her bag, remembering stories of the lenslight spectacle that the other Edgedwellers would get to watch at noon. But there was nothing for it. Donning her backpack and cracking a pair of slugmilk sticks, she begins trudging down the tunnel by way of their guiding green light. A worn stone engraving is the sign of encouragement she needs; perhaps this is the path that Wylling and Kirin traveled once before. (Develop Culture x2, Kettlerock) Results 49(-11), 28(-32), 96!(+33), 92(+29) To be a Hero means many things to the Wylling: a warrior, a poet, a scholar. Once a child's name is seen within the Kirin scales, a path unfolds for them. The path, bearing no signs, is only marked by the posts that mark the wilderness: the steep cliff, the treacherous river, the dark cave. Ground that has not been broken. Ways that have not been fared. The greatest obstacle marks the truest path. That is what makes a Wylling great, and that is what makes a Hero. A green mote shakes in the darkness, giving off its last burst of slugmilk glow before fading to an ember, then to a faint oblong shape in Heprey’s hand. She blinks. The last echoes of light are still in her eyes, but as she strains at them, they sinter and ripple away. Her hand finds the wall in front of her, and she taps with her knuckle. It sounds heavy in the deep, clotted air. “No good. Another dead end,” she says to Zarlus. “Hey, I wonder if the Lens already passed over us. You think-” Her ears clench, and she holds her breath. In the tight quarters, her Kirin’s claws on the ground should sound like kettle pangs, and his breath should hang loud behind her. He was silent. It was so silent, her ears rang. “Zarlus?” she says. Zarlus chuffs an affirmative from the back of his throat, but he keeps low and quiet. But deep in his throat is a pained whine muffled in fear. She turns, facing pitch blackness. As she rustles in her pack for another glowstick, she hears scales shifting. “What is it?” she whispers. She steps forward, her fingers already around the slugmilk. Zarlus’s claws clack. His scales rush around her. She finds herself grasping for the reins on his half-fastened saddle. They drop through depths, winding around corners, and claw-clicks echo off of acute angles. A cloud of phantom pursuers form, given life in Heprey’s blind eyes, chasing them through tight turns. Between a landing and a launch, Heprey tumbles headlong, her pack catching in Zarlus’s antlers as she spills onto a rocky floor. He lurches, tugging the pack away. “Hey!” she breaks her silence. The air follows him, pulling him away. She sits, choking on her breaths in silence. She doesn’t dare call out. He was running from something, or at least, that’s the way it seemed, but the more she waits, the more silent the dark becomes. She sits, letting the silence grow. It rings in her ears. In front of her, on the ground, a faint light pops out of the formlessness; slugmilk green! It must have fallen out of the pack when Zarlus took off. She grabs it, cracking it alight. A white face waits in the darkness. Without approaching, it fills her vision. A rush of vertigo, the sensation of falling turning her stomach. She yelps, arms flailing. A blanket. Her arms are caught in it. The rocking chair beneath her creaks to a stop, and a warm hearthfire washes over her as she rocks ever more gently toward it. It’s a quaint den, like a Hillfolk’s. There’s even a cluster of little portraits that span the wall above the hearth, going straight up to the ceiling, depicting all the generations of a big, Hillfolk family. But it’s all a little wrong. All of the faces are so young, not folks of a certain age sitting for their marriage portrait. Younger than that: children. And the fire burns strangely. There aren’t crackling logs. The hearth is full of mushroom caps, each like the end of a wax-soaked wick, sporting flames that lick the bottom of a kettle. When the face appears again, it’s not so frightening. It’s a mask of chalky stone, the barest features of a face chiseled and sanded into it: a neutral smile, a bump of a nose, and two black eye circles bored straight through. The thing is hooded and cloaked, its entire body covered. A shriveled, gray hand extends from its sleeve, retrieving the kettle. It turns to her with feeble grace. Heprey is not afraid. It almost looks frail. It beckons her to follow. She begins to say hello, “H-” A shriveled, gray palm flies up over Heprey’s mouth. The creature puts a finger up to its own caricature of lips. It beckons again. Behind the rocking chair, a boy sits at a table. He reaches for the kettle, taking it from the stone-faced thing. Halfway down his other arm, just before the elbow, it ends in a stump. He props himself up on it, reaching over to pour water into a little teapot in the table’s center. Heprey stares slack-jawed at him. He taps his ear, and as she approaches, he cups his hand over her ear, making a seal with his mouth. “My name’s Rebin Tallfellow,” he whispers. “What’s yours?” Heprey blinks at him. She cups her hand over his ear. “My name’s Heprey,” she whispers. “You’re Tallfellow?” He nods and grins. Tallfellow? She gives the boy another look over. Besides the one arm and the paleness of his skin, he looks very much alive. They drink tea in silence. The air smells of roasting mushroom, and the tea of ginger. Heprey, through convoluted gestures, asks the Stone-Face about another little boy, and about a kirin. It shakes its head. It has not seen the boy, but it has seen the kirin, pointing to his eye-holes and out the front door. In front of the hutch, the cavern is lit by strange light pouring down from a hole in the ceiling. Zarlus sits waiting, head low. Heprey greets him with a scratch behind the ears. He gives her a look of shame, turning away. The Stone-Face points up to the light. It makes two circles with its old hands, bringing them together. Rebin looks at it with sorrow. It hunches, and he flings his arms around its neck, whispering farewell into the side of its mask. The journey up the tight passage is long. All the while, light sparkles down, blinding Heprey and Rebin into hiding their eyes, but Zarlus has no trouble. Hundreds of layers of stone and earth pass. With every layer, the light ahead does not grow. It almost seems to fade, growing fainter. The walls almost seem to tighten. Rebin grips Heprey, and she grips Zarlus as he speeds faster and faster. The night air is utterly clear. Not a shred of fog stands on Kettlerock, all blown away by some zephyr. Directly above, Daedrok’s Lens hangs over the sun, turning the world into a kaleidoscope of color. Rebin giggles beneath his breath, his voice growing and growing until he’s cackling at the top of his lungs, winding himself into wheezing. In the coming weeks, the folks of Kettlerock would tell stories about how, just as Lens passed overhead, the fog cleared, sending the very rocks into sparkling. How in the moonlight, stone breathed and yawned, sending up jets of steam. How it was all alive, stirring in the moonlight. Others, very few, would tell of a hermit that meant well, and things for which he could not speak. (The culture curse has been lifted! With the Hero’s return, past suffering is given new perspective.) (+9 Culture in Kettlerock) (Critical failure! So taken by the wonder of Daedrok’s Lens, the people are filled with joy, and lose their respect for suffering. You cannot perform Culture actions until Spring. or 3 turns) }} Turn 6 }|turn06| "Shall we begin then?" "Yes, Maven." It was true, of course, that winter was the worst time to try to penetrate the Cowl. All across the Edge, it raged against the very existence of the Strange Folk, heaving great mountains of snow and ice from its boundless depths. But Edgewitches had spent generations tangled in their dance for survival, and knew that even the Cowl could not escape certain truths. The sun was shining somewhere. And so the words of the great Hillfolk hero, Kilmaedr, would guide them: "Look not to where your enemy strikes, but where they have struck out from." To find the surest way forward, the Edgewitches had called a Great Convocation, summoning their kith and kin from all the far-flung Edges of the known world. Young and old they came, alone and in covens, traveling great distances through the perils of the cold to answer the call. For three weeks, the Mavens listened as each witch sang the saga they had been entrusted, collecting every scrap of information that they could about the ancient Stormcallers. From this patchwork collection of near-myth, they weaved a great ritual, unperformed since the Cowl had settled into its seasons. Now, the time had come. Atop a forlorn butte, the Mavens gathered, arranging themselves as the ancients prescribed. The runes were carved, the menhirs aligned. And so they began to chant. (4x Enter the Far Roils, +10 to my highest pls) Results 100!, -18, +31, +31 The menhir stones stood immense against the sky, dwarfing the mortal Mavens that joined within them. A circle of witches stood within a circle of stone. The storm’s winter masonry heaped in layers of powder white atop the lofted monuments, and trails of footprints webbed between the convocation like a cat’s cradle of a thousand strings. A wind rose amongst them, wiping away the footprints. Their voice was stronger than voices, their words no longer words. Their presence was more than physical, and their exhaled breaths were untouched by cold. A company of younger witches watched from outside the circle, near where the path back began its rocky descent. Their arms were concealed, their kirin leering over the edge, ready to prevent the approach of any Hillfolk that dared to interrupt the ritual. Among them grew a stirring of hushed excitement. The ritual was working. Or, at least, something was happening. In the distant Roils, a protrusion emerged. A tendril shape wound from the cloud wall, dragging swirls into its shape. As the tendril stretched and grew, its meeting at the Roils carved its way down to the floor, pulling forward with it. Soon, it was a proper tornado. It was headed straight for the menhirs. In a mere minute, the Mavens would be in the twister’s eye. The younger witches braced each-other, keeping the flightiest among them from running to warn the Mavens, but they watched with mounting dread. The tornado grew closer, its wind blowing the snow off the grass at their feet. When it had nearly breached the shore at the butte, its apex stretched again, this time up. It spiraled up and up to the circle of stones and the circle of witches. It breached the stones. Clouds drew across them, concealing the mavens. The twister’s base, still buried in the cloud floor, snapped off, speeding away to the Roils. As it climbed the cloud wall again, the tendril grew taut like a string connecting the clouds to the menhirs. It snapped, dispersing powdery clouds. Like that, the storm winds died, replaced again by winter spats. The younger witches watched as each Maven returned down the butte’s steep face. They were all exhausted and astumble, but their juniors saw the raw wonder in their eyes. The ritual was more incredible than they’d imagined. There were sagas yet. sagas are more revealing than any of the Edgewitches expected, and their truths bear greater portent. discovered Improved Deep Sky Navigation! You gain +40 to rolls made to travel the Deep. Tech gained: The Stormwalk Ritual may stride the world like the Stormcallers of old, creating Walkways between places of power. These places of power may be found either by chance, by seeking them out in old places, or by using a turn action to attempt to create a Walkway from a known place of power to an unknown destination. Such an action counts as Deep Travel, and it gets all relevant bonuses. }} Category:History of Al'jann